Saturday, November 28, 2009
Let him rot amongst them/
Let the scent of the two/
Fill our town's humble roads/
O, lay Anxiety down/
Upon a bed of needles/
Let it puncture and maim/
Such a clever crook/
And yet, throw Depression/
Into the river, let him be taken/
Down to the fiery, boiling/
Pots and baths of the valley/
O! These three spiteful villains/
Shall never again trouble the minds/
And hearts of so innocent a crop/
As we, The Ones Who Think/
Beyond every poet, beyond every artist/
Lies the troubled mind that grieves/
For everything that has yet to happen/
Let all doubts, worries, and preoccupations/
Blow away with the stale winds of The Negative/
All is forgiven, and All will be well/
Time is all it takes.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Life has been up and down. Had a little bit of a girl interest, but that faded quickly. But it was cool while it lasted. Easy come, easy go. I've been getting into reading old poetry lately. Some really beautiful stuff out there. To balance out the addition of such a sissy thing, I've decided to join the football team next year. Not really. I have been sick, with a sinus infection, so I missed working two days in a row (today and tomorrow). This really sucks, because it would have been my first real two days in a row sort of thing at this job. I'm starting to be put into a rotation, and this is not a good first impression. But you can't control sickness. This break is seeming to be a bit bleak. Hopefully some fun comes out of it, but either way it is appreciated.
Music for the night: The National- Boxer: Thoughtful, interesting music. Really fits the mood of these past few days: somber, but not completely unhappy.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
It goes back, before the shoreline.
It goes back, before the smoke.
It goes back, before the thoughts.
The apologies were not sincere.
They were ceramic.
They were manufactured.
Every word we said was pretty.
They were porcelain. They stung when they broke.
The prologue meant more to us.
The chapters get more and more boring.
The pages rip as we turn them.
The words, the ink, is nothing more
Than notes in some birds song.
We tried to gather an orchestra.
The thoughts in our heads,
Swim through hoops and tunnels
We used to think of each other as people. The time
Passed us, in the back of those yellow rooms.
The tones we used, showed not only
Love, but understanding. Our eyes met
Many times. Words weren't needed.
Just a gaze.
One, Two figures stand onstage. Both are dressed casually. One, Two breathe in and one, two, three spotlights are turned on behind them. The audience is gasping, in some cases fainting. One ascends (using rope and sandbags) up to the rafters. Two descends, via trapdoor.
Setting: Apartment, empty. Five men sit around a wooden table. After a few minutes of silence, each man slowly rises to his feet and exits. Empty set for five minutes. Man knocks on door; door opens. Man enters. Silence for several awkward seconds, Man falls to his knees. Startling noise erupts in the otherwise silent stage. Audience looks puzzled, but soon realizes the man is screaming.
"NOT NOW, NEVER HERE" is screamed, with such passion that several Audience members are brought to tears. Smoke fills the stage, Man disappears.
Two hours pass, the smoke clears. Several Audience members have left. Most have remained. A small, rhythmic tapping can be heard. The tapping grows in volume for the next thirty seconds or so, until a women in high heels walks across the stage. She disappears, stage right. Gunshot rings through the theatre.
A small boy, carrying a plastic animal (ambiguous), waltzes across the stage, right to left. After the boy has gone, music begins to play. Screeching and out of tune, it causes several audience members to leave. An elderly gentleman crawls out of the audience and onto the stage. He boasts, in a foreign language, of a revolver taped to his forehead. An armchair is lowered from the rafters, and the man takes a seat. A coffee table, atop of which sits a newspaper, is then slid violently across the stage. It comes to rest in front of the man.
The elderly man peruses the newspaper for twenty minutes or so until, with no explanation, he removes the revolver from his forehead and exits, stage left. Audience member 124 stands and begins to chant: "Nos Volo Magis, Прежде, чем этот показ закончен"
All Audience members stand, and a flurry of curses and screams are thrown at the stage. Anarchy erupts, fights break out. Suddenly, through the doors opposite the stage (behind the quarreling Audience), a dozen doctors run into the theater. On stretchers, the Audience members are carried out into the street. Several Doctors are killed.
Time reverses. All that was done has been undone.
One, Two figures stand onstage. Both are dressed casually. One, Two breathe in and one, two, three spotlights are turned on behind them. The audience is gasping, in some cases fainting. One ascends (using rope and sandbags) up to the rafters. Two descends, via trapdoor...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
I'll take strides in the direction away from home.
No matter where I go, I'll always end up back here.
With you(pl). With Them. With us, with me.
What a pompous race we all are/run.
Taking with us the instincts of animals,
We inject the idea of souls into our thoughts/mind.
As the lights cut my vision, I no longer want you.
As the next shoe drops, my dreams morph,
Into what will happen, what must.
After all, Aren't we just a peripheral
Thought in the mind of some worn out, cynical
Man? I couldn't think of a more fitting God.
What choice does one have? Take it for what it is:
A lie/picket fence/silver spoon/malnourished insect.
Life: it no longer exists.
Time: measured solely by how many time blood pumps
Through a piece of meat.
Maybe our minds will ascend, our souls will triumph.
Maybe everything we live for, everything we do,
Is tallied out in space.
Maybe we are this fall's harvest.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
That will be all.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Either way, I can honestly say I've felt more happiness this week than I have in a while. I hope everything holds up, at least for a little while.
Music for the night: The Builders and The Butchers- Salvation is A Deep Dark Well: An album full of dark, powerful, folky Americana. Found two of their albums, this one being the most recent. It boasts a much fuller sound than the earlier album, but both seem to be quite good. Keeping my eye on this band.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
I WANT STABILITY.
I HAVE STABILITY=MONOTONY.
I HAVEN'T STABILITY=DEPENDABILITY.
I HAVE EVERYTHING NEEDED, BUT FEW THINGS WANTED.
I need to meditate. I need to sort things out. There is no appropriate metaphor for how my life is right now. Maybe a swamp. Maybe not. The few rays of sunshine are fleeting. Shut the fuck up, because I am tired of getting caught in the middle. I wonder if, come December, I'll look back and laugh at how foolish and unhappy I've been. I had a dream, we were on a roller coaster, and we went down into some pit, and everyone dropped their valuables into a net. I guess it was just a haunted house, but I never did get out. I woke up wrapped in a spider's web somewhere down there. You lived in a cabin, and I loved you then. Maybe I will forever. Until something better comes along, that is.
A guy can hope.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Worthless pieces, piles.
Puzzles, grains of sand.
The same pattern, repeated.
Day after day, waltz through the songs.
Stale thoughts, stale affections.
Let the water rush on,
Your commands can't stop it.
The sky grows light, then darkens.
What makes you think you can change it?
You cry "this is unjust!"
But, The Jury brushes it aside.
You plead insanity, you swear it.
They can see through it.
They see the scared boy underneath.
The trees whisper fabricated secrets,
As you complain to your cell mates
"I just needed ____, I shouldn't be here!"
They laugh, They all tried being crazy, too.
"Even I tried that", says the demon in the corner
Every path is just a dead end.
The faces we wear are false.
Every hour that ticks by,
Reeks of hate and boredom.
The faces we wear are not our own.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Music for the night: Sufjan Stevens- Illinoise: Been meaning to check this out for about 3 years now. Finally did. Really great stuff. Worth the praise.
Monday, November 2, 2009
I divulged secrets. I loved, I lost, I won.
I got out of it. It's what I'm best at.
I sit here with my music, as if...
As if it proves my worth, my existence.
I had great moments, I had bad ones.
I know, I hope, I still have many of each.
They all tell me I have low hopes.
I guess, I just think it is reality.
But what is reality? Why would I know?
I get through every day like trudging through...
Wet sand, or some other fucking metaphor.
I have fun, I laugh. I have friends.
One, maybe two, things keep me down.
I'm fine. Why do I end the day feeling
Well, FEELING, man FEELING incomplete.
When does the good have its turn again?
And what the fuck does this..
Does this have to do with real life?
Where is God? WHERE is salvation?
Don't get.me.wrong. I have no illusions...
That my problems matter. I just, wash them away.
What do my complaints have to do with the poor
Man in China, in India, in Africa?
I bet he wishes he had my problems.
I bet he'd kill his neighbor for them.
We all think we have so much time ahead of us.
I'm not even 17. I should be fine.
CHANCES ARE. But, If I, if WE, HAVE SO much time...
Why do I feel like I'm done?
SO GIRLS, SO GUYS, SO LADIES, SO GENTS:
I know this is just a vertical list of complaints,
I know it's no poem.
Leave it be.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Yes, the man has a long name. The first thing anyone will say when you mention the Brooklyn based singer/songwriter is “What was his name again?”. So, for the sake of convenience, we’ll just stick with “Robinson” or “MBAR” for the time being. After falling into a drug and alcohol induced depression, Robinson made some important friends in the indie rock community (Kyp Malone of TV on the Radio and Chris Taylor of Grizzly Bear) who, fortunately, saw a great amount of talent in the struggling musician. In 2008, MBAR’s eponymous debut was released, amounting a Vampire Weekend sized amount of hype in the New York indie scene. Shortly after the debut was released, Saddle Creek records (home of giants such as Bright Eyes and Cursive) came a-knockin’ at Robinson’s door, and the deal was settled. Summer of Fear, an album that Miles had been working on even before his debut, was released digitally on September 22nd, 2009 as his sophomore release.
Where the debut had only 10 songs, Summer of Fear has 13, and runs over an hour long. If one had to choose an adjective to describe the mood of Robinson’s songs, “depressing” would be a top contender. However, Summer of Fear seems to have a few strands of hope that the debut lacked. The album begins on a somber note with “Shake a Shot”, which introduces the electric piano that becomes a staple throughout almost the entire album. Summer of Fear takes MBAR in a direction that seems to make sense, but also comes as a surprise. One would have thought that the somber acoustic numbers that populated about half of the debut would reappear; however, it seems that the young song-writer delved into his rock history and used the influences of artists such as Bob Dylan(most obvious on the eleven-minute epic “More Than A Mess”), Tom Petty, and, in some instances, Bruce Springsteen.
The production, courtesy of the aforementioned Kyp Malone, gives each instrument on the album the perfect amount of room to breathe. The use of multiple vocal tracks also add to Robinson’s charm, although his voice is, without a doubt, a love it or hate it sort of thing. Unlike his 2008 effort, Summer of Fear finds MBAR using various vocal styles; at one moment he could be speaking and a second later he could be belting out soulfully. Tracks such as “The Sound” and “Trap Door” showcase both Robinson’s pop sensibility and his bleak lyrics (“Why should I try to hang onto anyone else, it’s a hard enough time just trying to hang myself” or “There’s a trap door in every rock bottom”).
Each and every song on the album adds to the overall effect, and I couldn’t imagine the record being the same if any of the songs were to be removed. The tracks often seem to reach a climax towards the end, and choruses are not present in every song. Miles does an excellent job of keeping every song interesting, and Summer of Fear is sure to keep even his fans guessing upon their first listen. “The 100th of March” and “Always an Anchor” are in close competition for my favorite track, but in reality, any song off of the album could be considered a favorite track. Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson has released one of 2009’s best records, and, if he keeps it up, deserves to go down in history as one of our generation’s best songwriters.